triptych

This poem is thrice

told. It exhales

a story of ghosts,

her countenance and

keys. These are framed,

threefold. As we

watch it, this poem

makes us prey.

It impregnates our peripheral

sight. To see her

entirely we must

look at the picture

as one. A lady

splintered, our primary

focus. Thrice the eye,

twice removed. Thrice

her kneejerk hair. Thrice

the concentric Underwood

circles. Each division,

a longitude rubbing her

cotton underbelly blur

on cold-rolled steel,

whiplash prances slightly

on some triptych turquoise.

The first breath

is the cat's cradle

* * * * * * * * * *

swathed in her

butterfly drift. The rippling

pawprint is proof

that she carries over

to the second

and third frames and

so on and

so forth. Now look.

She has moved

us into the second

breath, just likethat.

We crane to see

her seafoam iris.

There might swim mermaids

in that jade.

We will never see

that half again.

The margin has left

us this singular

storm, this cycloptic green.

We should note

her hair is still

split-end cursive,

wringing her powdered neck.

This is important.

Note the solar flare,

the fine-spun

* * * * * * * * * *

copper coiling. These are

extensions of her

lashes. The same faerie

rings. The same

pale moons set

the frame's right hand.

She looks just

like before, except this

time, she loses

certain symmetries. And so

she moves out

of sight, to outskirts.

This is her

final breath and frame.

We watch keys

dancing in her stead.

She might be

on the other side,

behind the vertical.

She might be watching

those crescent pirouettes.

We spy her repercussion,

believing that once,

only a breath ago,

we could measure

her life in frames

and triptych echoes.